The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (17 page)

Ryder had his doubts about that, but . . . “Very well. Let’s sit down like civilized people and I’ll tell you all.”

“But where are you hurt?” Stacie took his arm as if to assist him to a chair.

Ryder didn’t budge. “My side, which means I’m perfectly able to walk.”

Stacie met his eyes, then wrinkled her nose at him. “Then do—to a chair.”

Ryder chuckled and did, but he elected to sit beside Mary on the chaise. The others all subsided into the various chairs, all fixing demandingly inquisitive gazes on his face. Inwardly sighing, he gave them a severely edited version of events—which naturally led to all four expressing their heartfelt thanks to Mary.

She accepted the accolades with serene calm and the observation “It was the least I could do.”

“Yes, well.” Ryder took back the conversational reins. “That’s not my only news. Miss Cynster has done me the honor of accepting my offer for her hand, and will therefore soon be your sister-in-law.”

“Really?” Stacie sat up, eyes widening, totally distracted from his injury. “There’s to be a wedding?”

Rand leapt in to offer his congratulations, and the others followed suit. There could be little doubt of either their sincerity or their enthusiasm; Ryder sat back and watched Mary laugh, then more freely interact with the four.

And felt an unacknowledged little weight lift from his shoulders.

He’d always stood as protector for the four; for him, for his peace of mind, it was essential that his wife see them in the same light, acknowledging as he did their right to his attention. He would never put them above her, yet equally he would never refuse them whatever aid and succor they required.

It was Stacie who asked, “I take it Mama doesn’t know—about either the attack or your betrothal?”

“Not about the attack—and if you please, do keep that to yourselves. There’s no point bruiting such a piece of information abroad.” He’d given them the most likely explanation for the attack, that some cuckolded—or supposedly cuckolded—husband had thought to remove him from competition for some lady’s favors. “But as to our betrothal, of that Lavinia is already aware, and as for the wider ton, the notice will appear in the
Gazette
tomorrow.”

“Oh. But then I haven’t really seen Mama for the last two days—I’ve been out with friends.” Stacie turned pensive. “I wonder what invitations I have that will serve to keep me out of the house tomorrow?”

Kit laughed and teased her over not wanting to face their mother; Stacie countered that he and Rand didn’t live under the same roof, so did not have the same pressing need as she and Godfrey to take evasive action.

Rand groaned. “I’ll have to, I’m sure.” He glanced at Ryder. “She’ll want to haul me over the coals for not getting leg-shackled myself.”

“You and me, both,” Kit replied. “Godfrey, at least, is too young—you’ll escape the repercussions, pup.”

Ryder caught the faintly puzzled glance Mary threw him and almost imperceptibly nodded, indicating that he would explain later.

Predictably, Stacie had questions about everything—about when they’d first met, why they’d decided they would suit, and when he’d proposed—and, of course, how; while his brothers did not have quite the same focus, they were curious, too, but Mary proved as nimble as he in skirting those issues they did not wish to air. She then turned the questioning back on his siblings, exploiting her soon-to-be position to learn more about them.

Somewhat to Ryder’s surprise, his half sister and half brothers responded readily to her interrogation and were soon treating her with the same openness they accorded him. As the comments, quips, and questions swirled, and Mary—closer to his half siblings’ ages than he—all but became one of them, he smiled and relaxed, too.

His immediate family—this family—had never been stable, had never had the firm foundation and solidity of the Cynsters, an unshakeable base he suspected Mary and her cousins took for granted; they’d never known anything else.

Such rock-solid cohesion, based on loyalty and devotion and unquestioned trust, was something he’d yearned for from his earliest years. As he’d grown, that yearning had grown with him, melding into and coloring his view of his ideal future.

He’d known he could never have that sort of family—could never build his own Cavanaugh version of it—without the right wife. Without a wife who innately understood all that family could and should mean. Who understood how, at base, such a family worked.

Mary possessed that inherent understanding.

Even though she’d picked up the oddity and strain of his relationship with Lavinia, and had realized, he was sure, that it impacted on his half siblings, too, she’d already reached out to the four, was already—before his very eyes—making the sort of interconnections he’d hoped she would.

As the minutes rolled by and those burgeoning connections only deepened and grew stronger, as the laughter—more laughter than this house had heard in many a long year—rolled through the room, he wished it didn’t have to end so soon. Turning to Rand, under cover of one of Kit’s tall tales, he asked, “I’m not going out, so will be dining early. Can you stay?”

“Yes—of course.” Rand glanced at Mary, then looked at Ryder.

He nodded, and when Kit concluded his tale, Ryder put the notion of a shared early dinner—“a family dinner”—to a vote. His other half siblings instantly agreed.

Ryder turned to Mary. “We would count ourselves honored if you would stay and dine with us.” Capturing her hand, he raised it to his lips, his eyes on hers brushed a kiss to her fingertips. “Please do.”

Muted catcalls came from Kit and Godfrey.

Mary ignored them and smiled into his eyes. “Thank you. I would be delighted to join you”—she glanced at the others—“and the rest of your family.”

Ryder grinned. “Excellent.” Retaining his hold on her hand, he glanced at Rand. “Ring for Pemberly, Rand—” He broke off as the front doorbell rang again. He arched his brows. “Now who?”

Along with the others, Mary looked toward the door.

Pemberly entered to announce, “Mr. and Mrs. Simon Cynster, Miss Henrietta Cynster, and Mr. James Glossup, my lord.”

Mary rose with the others; she stood beside Ryder as her brother, sister, sister-in-law, and soon-to-be brother-in-law walked in. Stepping forward, she greeted them and made the introductions.

Congratulations and the inevitable quips flowed once again. For several minutes as the two groups merged, greetings and comments, exclamations and explanations wrapped the company in a pleasant hubbub.

Eventually leaving Simon and James chatting with Ryder and his half siblings, Mary turned to Portia and Henrietta.

Henrietta said, “Mama wasn’t sure what you were planning for the evening. As we’d just returned and heard your news, we offered to come and either bring you home with us, or else take home word of your plans.”

“I see.” Mary hesitated, then looked up as Ryder joined them. “Henrietta was just asking about my plans for the evening. How large is your dining table?”

Ryder smiled, all lazy lion, down at her. “The big one seats forty-eight, but as we’re only ten, we can use the family dining room.”

Mary looked back at Henrietta, then at Portia. “Have you any plans yourself for tonight? Or can you stay and join all of us here for an early dinner?”

Portia glanced at Henrietta, then looked back at Mary. “As we weren’t sure when we’d be back . . .” Glancing at Ryder, she explained, “We’d gone to Wiltshire to deal with some matter at James’s estate—I’ve already cried off all events for tonight, so for myself I would be delighted to stay. And I’m sure Simon will be, too.”

“You can count on me and James.” Henrietta looked across at the others and grinned. “It will be like having our own impromptu engagement dinner.”

Ryder’s smile deepened. “Excellent.” He looked down at Mary. “If you would ring for Pemberly, my dear?”

Meeting his eyes, seeing very clearly how happy he was with the direction in which she’d steered events, she inclined her head. “Of course.”

Chapter Eight

T
he following morning, Mary sat in the window seat in the back parlor of her parents’ house and studied the formal notice of her betrothal that had appeared in that day’s
Gazette
.

While one part of her mind remained faintly stunned that this was where her quest for her hero had landed her, the greater part was . . . already relishing the challenge.

Absentmindedly toying with the rose quartz pendant, she read the notice again. Her eyes dwelled on Ryder’s full name: Ryder Montgomery Sinclair Cavanaugh. His middle names, she had not a doubt, would be past marchionesses’ family names; when combined with Cavanaugh, his name was redolent of the power and majesty of England’s nobility.

Challenge
. It was there, staring her in the face, impossible for any to deny—not that anyone would; Ryder’s character was known the length and breadth of the ton.

But this particular challenge, the one he had with his customary arrogance laid at her feet, was hers alone to meet. No other lady would ever have the chance of being his chosen marchioness. Of being able to deal with him, to treat with him, with that specific advantage.

Fate might have cut short their courting, but she was now where she was, the notice in the
Gazette
made her position irrevocable, and forward was her only possible direction.

Which meant she needed to learn more, much more, about Ryder—and in short order. She might never be able to control him, yet regardless she needed to start looking deeper, focusing more on him, on what was important to him, on what drove him.

He’d enjoyed the previous evening—they all had—but he in particular, albeit it subtly, had encouraged and facilitated; she’d sensed he’d been deeply content with how the evening had gone. It had been after nine o’clock before, noting a certain tension about his eyes and guessing his strength was flagging, she had, also subtly, called an end to the gathering. Everyone had departed in a rowdy group, all delighted with their new connections; Mary had left with Henrietta and James but had made sure to alert Pemberly and Collier to ensure they stood ready to help their master up the great stairs to his bed.

At least he wasn’t of that nonsensical type of male who wouldn’t let those close to him physically assist him.

Lips curving, she refocused on the announcement. She’d enjoyed her first taste of being his marchioness and knew he’d appreciated and approved of her skills.

It was a minor success, but it had been a start. Indeed, the events of yesterday had given her significant insights into her husband-to-be’s life, and left her with questions she needed to further explore.

She was mentally listing said questions—what the situation between him and his stepmother truly was topped the list—when the door opened and Henrietta walked in.

“There you are.” Seeing the
Gazette
in Mary’s hands, Henrietta grinned. “Still amazed at your fate?”

Mary swiveled to face her sister as Henrietta tugged an armchair closer and sat. “You have to admit that, given my requirements regarding my hero, Ryder isn’t a candidate anyone would have nominated.”

Tipping her head, Henrietta regarded her. “Actually . . . I would have to disagree. Quite aside from what I observed last night, I know Mama’s pleased. She thinks he’s perfect for you and you and he will do very well together, and I gather the others—Honoria, Patience, and Alathea, as well as the grandes dames, Aunt Helena, Aunt Horatia, and Lady Osbaldestone included—all think the match well nigh perfect on all sides.”

“Hmm.” Mary had been curious as to how others would see it. “Still, he’s rather . . . I suppose one might say ‘more than I bargained for.’ ”

Henrietta’s smile flashed. “Possibly, but he does seem utterly intent on sweeping you off your feet and into marriage.”

“Indeed. But it’s the ‘love and wedded bliss’ part of our equation I’m unsure about.”

“Ah, but that’s why you’re perfect for him.”

Mary frowned. “That’s what I don’t understand—why
is
everyone so sure of that?”

For half a minute, Henrietta regarded her as if wondering if she was jesting or not, then, as if puzzled herself, said, “You know—well, I know you know because we all often tell you so—that you’re the bossiest female ever to walk the ton’s ballroom floors.”

Still puzzled, Mary returned Henrietta’s gaze steadily. “Of course I know that. Quite aside from all your complaints, it’s not as if I don’t behave so deliberately.”

“Exactly!” Henrietta sat back with a wave. “There you are then.” When Mary continued to look blank, Henrietta spread her arms. “Don’t you see? On the list of gentlemen of the ton who need to be bossed, Ryder Cavanaugh ranks supreme—indeed, well out of range of any others. More than any other, he’s the one who needs a lady like you—one with the right nature to counter his—to take him in hand.”

“Ah.” Suddenly, Mary saw it. “
That’s
why the grandes dames are so thrilled.”

The look Henrietta cast her clearly said,
Well, of course!

The sound of footsteps in the corridor preceded the opening of the door. Louise walked in, saw them, and smiled. “Perfect. I need to speak with you both.”

Closing the door, Louise crossed the parlor and sank onto the cushions alongside Mary. “We have the flowers for the wedding to finalize today, but before we head off on that errand, we need to discuss when to hold yours and Ryder’s engagement dinner and ball.”

Mary blinked. “I have to admit I hadn’t yet thought of it.”

Louise nodded. “Indeed, but in this case, this household has to juggle your engagement event with Henrietta’s wedding.”

“Oh, but”—Mary glanced at Henrietta—“the wedding takes precedence, surely?” She looked at Louise. “Can’t we leave any engagement ball until after the wedding?”

“We
could,
” Louise allowed, “but it would have to be at least a week after, and then we run into the question of when your wedding would be held.” She waved her hands. “It’s become something of a logistical nightmare, what with all those of the family who have traveled to town for Henrietta’s wedding, and who would feel compelled to remain for an extended time if we put off your engagement ball, and so pushed back your wedding, too.” Louise grimaced and met Henrietta’s, then Mary’s, eyes. “We—the ladies of the family—all gathered at Horatia’s yesterday and discussed the subject at length. It was agreed that if you and Ryder are amenable, then the most felicitous timing for all would be to hold your engagement ball and dinner
before
Henrietta’s wedding, with your wedding following a week or so after Henrietta’s.” Louise paused, then added, “Unless, of course, you and Ryder were content to put back your wedding until September or so.”

Both Henrietta and Louise looked inquiringly at Mary. Considering the prospect, she pulled a face. “While I can see some benefits in a longer engagement”—such as giving her time to learn how to better deal with Ryder before she let him put his ring on her finger—“I can’t imagine either he or I will be . . . comfortable with waiting until September.”

“Indeed.” Louise nodded. “That was the consensus of feeling yesterday—and really, no one could see any great sense in delaying formally acknowledging your engagement.” Louise nodded at the paper Mary still held. “Especially as the announcement has already been made. It’s taken people by surprise, and although that’s neither here nor there, compounding surprise by delaying a formal engagement ball was something we all saw as simply unnecessary. And making you and Ryder wait until September to marry seemed equally senseless. So!” Louise drew breath and faced Mary. “What do you think, and how do you think Ryder will see it?”

“I don’t know—as I said, I hadn’t thought of it, so we haven’t discussed the subject at all.” Lips firming, Mary looked at Henrietta, then met Louise’s gaze. “But clearly he and I need to do so. When, exactly, were you thinking of holding our engagement ball?”

“With the wedding six days away, the latest we could manage it is four nights from now.”

“And our wedding?”

“It was suggested, from our Cynster point of view, that a week after Henrietta’s would be the earliest date that would suit, but that’s more flexible, of course. We need to consult more definitely with Ryder and his family on that.”

Mary nodded. “Very well—I’ll suggest that. Our engagement ball four nights from now, and our wedding a week after Henrietta’s.”

“Good!” Louise rose. “Now, we really should be on our way to Covent Garden. The florist suggested we visit her shop and see the blooms for ourselves, just to make sure we’re happy with the flowers we’ve chosen.”

Henrietta rose with alacrity, but Mary was slower coming to her feet. When Henrietta arched a brow at her, Mary grimaced. “I was going to come with you, but four nights from now isn’t all that much time.” She met her mother’s eyes. “I suspect my morning will be better spent determining Ryder’s thoughts on the timing of our engagement ball and our wedding.”

T
hat the Marchioness of Raventhorne had elected to breakfast at the small table before the fire in her boudoir in company with Claude Potherby, who had called to keep her company, was the only thing that saved her Sèvres tea service from certain destruction.

Perusing Lavinia’s copy of the
Gazette,
Claude glanced at her, then folded back the paper to reveal the Announcements section and held it out to her. “Here—you’d better read this.”

Setting down her teacup, Lavinia accepted the news sheet and focused on the print.

“Argh!
” She shot to her feet, overturning her delicate hoop-back chair, which smashed on the polished boards.

She stared at the paper. “
Damn
it! Why didn’t they stop it?”

Claude smothered a sigh. “My apologies, but I thought it better you see that now, rather than hear about it later—in public—but, after all, you knew it was coming.” He frowned. “And they who? Who would want to even try to put a stop to it?” Other than her, but Claude knew Lavinia’s wishes were neither here nor there, at least not with regard to her stepson.

“Bah!” Lavinia flung the sheet into the fireplace.

The flames flared and consumed the thin paper. Claude didn’t care; he’d already read all the news it had contained.

Tightly folding her arms, Lavinia fell to pacing. “I’d thought the Cynsters would decide that Ryder was no fit husband for their darling.” She flung out an arm. “He’s a known seducer!”

Of bored matrons only too ready to be seduced.
Claude thought the words but knew better than to utter them. Instead, he drawled, “I believe you should take this as a sign that Mary Cynster is not the lady for your Randolph.”

Lavinia snorted. “Clearly.” Still pacing, breakfast forgotten, she started to chew one fingernail. “I’ll have to find someone even better for Randolph—a young lady of impeccable background with an even bigger dowry—and with all speed.”

Lucky Randolph
. Content that he’d discharged the duty of a friend and circumvented any public display of unseemly temper on Lavinia’s part, Claude raised his cup, shut his ears to her mutterings, and gave himself over to savoring the really quite excellent coffee Lavinia’s cook produced.

Half an hour after seeing her mother and Henrietta off to Covent Garden, Mary walked into Ryder’s library unannounced. Seated behind his desk, he’d glanced up at the sound of the door opening. Seeing her, he smiled, the gesture carrying open appreciation of her statement in not permitting Pemberly to usher her in.

“Good morning, Mary.” Ryder’s deep, sonorous tone resonated through her. Rising, his gaze traveling from the top of her head to her feet, then somewhat more slowly returning to her face, he came forward to meet her. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did, thank you. But what about you?” Suppressing all awareness of his hungry lion gaze, of the sheer physicality of him, heightened now they were again alone, halting before the chaise she pointed to his side. “What about your wound?”

Waving her to sit, with only the slightest check he sank into the armchair beside the chaise. “Sanderson called this morning and examined his handiwork. Both he and I are in agreement that all is healing well.”

“Good. Given what we need to discuss, that’s just as well.” When he raised his brows, she continued, “The dates for our engagement ball and, subsequently, our wedding.”

He stared at her for an instant, then said, “Ah—I see. Henrietta and James’s wedding is . . . when? Six days from now?”

She was pleased he saw the difficulty. “Precisely.” Setting her reticule beside her, she drew off her gloves. “According to the collective wisdom of the ladies of my family, we have two choices—sooner, or later.” Briskly, she outlined the arguments; Pemberly arrived with the tea tray as she concluded, “So that’s why they’ve suggested four nights from now for a formal dinner and engagement ball, with our wedding to follow Henrietta and James’s, but with at least a week between.”

She paused to pour. When they both sat back, cups in hand, she sipped, then asked, “So what do you think?”

His heavy-lidded hazel gaze was resting on her, yet she got the impression he wasn’t truly seeing her but was considering, juggling options and outcomes . . . then he refocused on her.

“I’m in complete agreement with the argument that, having announced our betrothal, regardless of the proximity of Henrietta and James’s wedding, society will expect some formal acknowledgment of said betrothal by both our families.” He sipped, then went on, “More, that our engagement surprised most observers also argues for a sooner rather than later acknowledgment, simply to quash any potential speculation on our families’ attitudes to the match, no matter that there aren’t any adverse views.” He grimaced lightly. “You know what the ton is like.”

She inclined her head. “Indeed.” She was pleasantly surprised that his grasp of society’s foibles was so acute.

“So,” he went on, “although a formal dinner and engagement ball four nights from now would, in the general way of things, rank as somewhat precipitous, it would nevertheless suit our purposes best—and, of course, the imminent wedding gives us a solid excuse.”